He peered from face to face, as if expecting to see a smile on one of them; but the seriousness of the company at last appeared to bring the truth home to him.
“You really mean it?”
He sank into a chair and gazed round the company once more as though dazed by the realisation of the tragedy.
“Both of ’em? Why, I was talking to them both not three hours ago. We were talking about that Shackleton case—or is it Hackleton? I remember Neville asking if I read the newspapers, and Roger . . . What was it Roger said? . . . Oh, yes, now I remember. Roger was giving Neville a hint that Hackleton might find it worth his while to sandbag him or something like that. I can’t think why; but Roger was very strong about that, I remember. And then I went off and left them together. And now you say they’re both dead! I can’t believe it, Stenness. Why, I was talking to them not three hours ago, or even less, it may be, here in this very room.”
“It’s unfortunately true, Mr. Shandon,” Howard Torrance assured him. “I found the body of Mr. Neville Shandon myself.”
Ernest paid no attention to him. He seemed to be quite thunderstruck, now that the news had penetrated his mind. At last he roused himself sufficiently to ask for some details, to which he listened with a sort of heavy interest.
“And they were killed by poisoned darts, you say? And I’ve got a nail in my boot myself. I might get blood-poisoning from it, if I’m not careful. I never thought of that till now.”
Sir Clinton had allowed a decent interval to elapse before entering the conversation; but he now glanced at his watch and put a question.
“Can you tell us when you last saw your brothers alive, Mr. Shandon?”
Ernest reflected for some moments as though trying to fix the time. Then he shook his head regretfully: